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  “Colorado v. Connelly,” Farrell replied. “The defense has produced medical records from Quinlan’s doctors back in Ireland. The records document that he has a second personality named Seamus. I can send you a copy of the file if you like—it’s well documented. They’re claiming that you read Miranda to Seamus and not to Sean Quinlan.”

  I gripped my forehead. “Jesus, I’m getting a migraine. Who the hell is Seamus? A goddamn leprechaun?”

  Sonellio snickered. “Easy, Chalice,” he warned. “Give me some details, Steve.”

  “The court found for Connelly, ruling that he was not of sound mind and that his murder confession was inadmissible,” Farrell said. “The decision was upheld in state Supreme Court.”

  “But that’s different. Quinlan didn’t confess. I arrested him after I found the murder weapon in his apartment. It’s apples and oranges, Steve,” I implored. “I read him Miranda when I took him into custody.”

  “And Sean Quinlan was questioned at the station house before he lawyered up,” Farrell interjected. “Hence he was not properly informed of his rights. He was denied due process.”

  I shook my head in disgust. “Chief, this guy is guilty as sin.”

  Farrell shot Sonellio another wary glance. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”

  “What? Jesus! What?”

  Sonellio gave Farrell the high sign. “I’ll take it from here, Steve.” Farrell grabbed his briefcase and left. Sonellio closed the door. “Look, kiddo, this is one of those times when everything just turns to shit. I know that you’ve got a big emotional stake in seeing this guy go up the river, but … without being able to find the victim’s blood on the alleged murder weapon …”

  “All I know is that the knife was found hidden in the suspect’s home, and the crime lab confirmed that the victim’s wounds were made by a knife exactly like it.”

  “Yeah, I know how it looks, but that doesn’t prove that he killed her. Believe me, Chalice; I don’t like being played for a fool. I’m not saying the victim’s blood wasn’t on that knife at one time, but since we’re not able to prove that it was …”

  “So now what? They send our perp for psychological evaluation, and ultimately, some bleeding-heart psychiatrist convinces the judge that Quinlan’s brain is made of porridge because he was abused as a child and not fit to stand trial.”

  “Don’t get so down in the dumps. The DA’s office is in the process of checking Quinlan’s medical records for authenticity, and the judge still has yet to rule on the Miranda argument. Maybe we’ll get lucky and pull a victory out of our asses yet.”

  Chapter Four

  The bar was dark, stealthy dark. I found the dim light comforting. I wasn’t hiding. I wasn’t even drinking. I was nibbling without appetite on a club sandwich and feeling sorry for myself. My collar, which I thought to be the absolute collar of collars, was crumbling before my eyes. Truly, sleight of hand was being used to disassemble the components of the case, but that didn’t make me feel any better. An arrest isn’t worth a damn until the cell bars slam shut. I had been convinced that the arrest was solid and that Sean Quinlan would do serious time. Guess again.

  The décor, like the lighting, was dark. The mahogany backbar had seen better days. The veneer was peeling, and the mirror residing behind the liquor bottles appeared to be even grayer and spottier than the last time I had visited. The only things lit up at the bar were the patrons—well, some of them anyway. Sly, the bartender offered to hit my coffee with a shot of amaretto, which I refused. Sly sports a five- o’clock shadow twenty-four hours a day and wears the same thickly ribbed turtleneck sweater so often, it must be bonded to his skin by now. “Chalice, you’re not hungry?”

  “Hungry? No, not really.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Yeah, Sly. Jurisprudence.”

  “The hell does that mean?” he asked.

  “It means that an arrest I made may get tossed out of court on a technicality.”

  A voice called out from behind me. “Maybe not.” I turned to see Steve Farrell pulling off his overcoat. “This seat taken?”

  “Help yourself, Counselor.”

  “Hey, Steve,” Sly said with a grin. “Good to see you. The usual?” Steve nodded. “Great. Coming right up.” Sly refilled my coffee cup before walking back to the kitchen.

  “What’s the usual?”

  “Firehouse chili and a Heineken.”

  “Is it good?”

  “Better than the dried-out turkey club you’re eating.”

  I pulled my sandwich apart, grabbed a strip of bacon, and crunched it between my teeth. “I think of it more as a bacon delivery system.”

  “You’re a funny girl, Chalice. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “It’s a defense mechanism.”

  “Why do you feel the need to be defensive?”

  Humor was part of my armor. I used quips and barbs to shield myself against the possibility of romantic entanglement with other members of the squad. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  He sat down. “You want your associates to focus on your skills and not your cleavage.”

  “You’re an attorney—you work with associates. I’m a cop—I work with other cops. It’s all over for me the moment I become known as the girl with a warm bed.”

  “I completely understand.”

  Sly placed Farrell’s chili on the bar alongside a cold glass of Heineken. “The chili’s mad-hot today—proceed with caution,” he said.

  “What happened, the cook find a sale on habaneros?” Farrell tasted the chili and then quickly chugged some beer. “Jesus, that’s ridiculous.”

  Sly chuckled as he walked off. “Don’t worry. The first refill is on me.”

  “Want to try some?” Farrell offered.

  “No thanks. You know you can get arrested for endangering the life of a police officer.” I picked up another strip of bacon. “I’ll stick with pork products.”

  Farrell ate lots of bread to subjugate the heat of the chili. “How long have you been on the squad now, Chalice?”

  “I’ve been carrying a gold shield just over a year. Why?”

  “Because … you’re a good cop, but you can’t let the job get to you like it did today. I’m not dropping my pants on this Quinlan case, but every once in a while, a slime bag walks. You have to learn to live with that.”

  “Why?”

  “If you don’t, the job will eat you alive. It’s not a fairytale where good always triumphs over evil. Sometimes the good guys lose.”

  “I don’t like losing.”

  “So I hear. Look you’ve got a nose for crime, and the Chief of Ds has your back. There isn’t much more a young detective can ask for.”

  “How about some fresh turkey for my club sandwich?”

  Farrell grinned and drained his glass. Sly had it under the tap as soon as Farrell set it down on the bar. “This is going to take some time,” Farrell said.

  “How long will it take you to verify that Quinlan’s medical records are authentic?”

  “I don’t know. The physicians will have to be contacted and questioned—their credentials will have to be checked. Clonmel, Ireland, for Christ’s sake—I don’t even know where that is. Quinlan’s been remanded for psychiatric evaluation. Could take a while … meanwhile, he stays behind bars.”

  “Emma Sands was carved up like a melon, and her wounds were consistent with the foldout knife that was hidden in Quinlan’s apartment. What can I tell you? I don’t like where this case is heading, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Quinlan’s attorney is making a solid arrest look like a circus sideshow.”

  “Concerned about your reputation?”

  “No, I’m concerned that Quinlan will walk and that more women will die.”

  Farrell drank more of his beer. “Not a problem. I’ll see that he’s fed this chili three times a day. We won’t have to worry about a conviction—he’ll incinerate from the inside out.”

  “That’s
a creative solution.”

  “You know, you mentioned that you’re concerned about how you’re perceived by your fellow police officers.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I’m not a police officer.” Here we go. I could almost anticipate what he’d say next. I was already thinking of an excuse as he put his hand on my arm. “You think you’d like to go out some time?”

  “I don’t know, Steve. I only go out with assholes, and you’re clearly not an asshole.”

  “I can be an asshole. Every guy has it in him.”

  I looked into his eyes as if trying to judge his character. “No, I’m not certain you can.”

  He chuckled. “What if I just act like an asshole?”

  “Not the same thing. You don’t qualify.”

  “Hold on. Follow my logic. If I pretended to be an asshole exclusively for the purpose of getting into your pants, wouldn’t that qualify me for genuine asshole status?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “All right,” I said. “Keep talking.”

  Chapter Five

  Quinlan stood on the courthouse steps with his attorney, Cronan Hartley. Hartley, a man with an unappealing countenance, wore a cashmere coat trimmed with sable. Pasty strands of hair were lifted off his head by the wind that gusted down the avenue. He flipped up his fur collar to cover his neck and insulate it from the cold. I refused to listen to him speak but knew the rehearsed comments he was about to recite to the press, “Blah, blah, blah—my client has been acquitted and is eager to return to a normal life.”

  The word acquitted can mean: harmless, blameless, or innocent. It can also mean freed. Yes, Sean Quinlan had been freed, but he was far from innocent. Of that I was certain. It bothered me that he was smiling as the reporters interviewed his attorney. He didn’t look like a man whose burden had been lifted. He looked as if he was gloating. It was his lucky day. He had beaten the system. A woman lay dead. In a few minutes, he’d be on his merry way to do whatever it was that murderers do.

  A text popped up on my cell phone. It was a message from Steve Farrell. Sorry, Chalice. That was the entire text, just two words, but it was enough. He didn’t offer excuses or consolation. He was succinct and to the point, just as I preferred.

  I heard Ma entering the room. I switched off the TV. Quinlan and Hartley faded to black and disappeared. If only life was that simple. If only we could flush away life’s waste with a tug on the toilet handle. Good riddance.

  “I’m ready,” she said. Ma smiled, although I could see that it took some effort for her to do so. Most things were still a little difficult for her these days. Understandably so—she was still reeling from the loss of her husband. My father had lived just long enough to see me promoted to detective. A long and sad year had come and gone since his passing. I gazed at my mother, watching as she bravely smiled through her pain. Her wound was still open and raw. It was a wound that would take a very long time to heal. “Are you sure we have to go out? I can whip up a quick pot of macaroni and peas—twenty minutes tops.”

  “No!” I said resolutely. I needed to get her out of the house, away from solitude and desolation. She needed to be out with other people; smiling people, talking people—normal people. She was dressed in black, just as she had every day since my dad passed away, but she had put on a colorful scarf and was wearing proper makeup. “You look pretty, Ma.”

  “Bah! You’re such a liar, Stephanie. I look like a piece of pounded veal.”

  She was pale and thin—the veal analogy was not lost on me. Nonetheless … “Put your coat on. There’s this place I’ve been dying to try out.”

  “Is it close?”

  “Close enough to walk.”

  “Oh … okay. I’ll get my coat.” I hated seeing her like this. Her doctor had offered her antidepressants, but his suggestion was received about as warmly as a fart in church. I knew that I was making a nuisance of myself, but it didn’t seem as if she was going to get better on her own—not quickly, at any rate. She came back wearing her coat and was ready to go. “Are you sure I can’t make a pot of macaroni?”

  “No.”

  “How about grilled cheese and tomato. I’ve got beautiful vine tomatoes. I’ll have it on the table in five minutes.”

  “No.”

  “How about …”

  ~~~

  The maître d’ greeted me with outstretched arms and a warm smile. “Ah, you’re back. So good to see you again.” I didn’t think he would remember me and hadn’t expected such a robust greeting. Having told Ma I wanted to “check the place out,” I wasn’t sure if I was about to get busted. Hopefully she wasn’t listening too closely in between thinking of all the meals she could prepare in thirty minutes or less. “Would you like the same table as last time?” he asked.

  Oh shit—my goose is cooked. There’d be no way I’d be able to escape her wrath now. At the very least, a full inquisition was coming: Who did you have dinner with? What’s his name? What does he do? I bit my lip. “Sure. That sounds great.”

  We were shown to a table near the window, not too close as to feel the outside chill through the glass and not so far as to encroach on our view of Times Square. It was the perfect table, the one everyone wanted. Now it was ours. “I have a lovely Pinot Noir tonight. May I bring two glasses for the lovely ladies?”

  “We’ll take a bottle,” I said, resigned to my fate.

  The maître d’ had barely turned away when Ma lowered the boom. “It’s a good thing you’re not an undercover cop, Stephanie—you’d blow your cover in two minutes.”

  “I’m honestly surprised he remembers me.”

  “Have you looked in the mirror lately, Sweetheart?”

  “What?”

  “Were you wearing a red rubber nose and a clown suit the last time you were here?”

  I’d say Ma was off her meds if I didn’t know better. “What are you talking about?”

  “Sweetie, men don’t forget a girl who looks like you, not unless they’re sitting at a piano, wearing dark sunglasses, and singing ‘My Cherie Amour.’”

  I blushed, not from her compliment but because I’d been caught in a lie. “The city’s filled with attractive women. Trust me, I’m no standout.”

  “No standout? I bet the maître d’ can tell me your exact shoe size. It’s a good thing you dress like a man when you go to work or you’d never get anything done.”

  “Gee, I hope the wine is good.”

  “Don’t try switching gears on me, Stephanie Marie Chalice. Who did you have dinner with? What’s his name? What does he do? You know the drill—start talking.”

  Jesus. “His name is Steve. He’s an attorney. We had dinner together.”

  The maître d’ returned and proceeded to perform the requisite wine-tasting ritual. I had the wine to my lips when Ma smacked his arm and asked, “What size shoe do you think she wears?”

  “Ma.” I blurted like an embarrassed teenage girl.

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Ignore her.”

  He looked perplexed. “The lady?”

  “Yes, the lady. What size shoe do you think she wears?” He began to peek under the table, but Ma stopped him. “No-no-no, without looking,” she insisted.

  He shrugged. “Seven and a half?”

  “Seven and a half—that’s your guess? Not seven, not eight, but seven and a half?”

  “Yes,” he replied hesitantly.

  “That’s a very good guess,” Ma said. “The wine is perfect. Thank you.”

  “But the lady hasn’t—”

  “The lady doesn’t have to taste the wine. It’s delicious. I can tell from here.” She shooed him away. He shrank away from the table. “What did I tell you? Seven and a half, right on the money.”

  Now I understood—Ma wasn’t depressed, she just needed someone to argue with. Don’t get me wrong; my father’s death had left her an incomplete and despondent woman, but it was the absence of day-to-day confrontation that was impeding her recovery, or so I deduced. “You’re v
ery proud of yourself. I guess I’m not the only cop sitting at this table.”

  “Over twenty years with your father, you think nothing rubbed off?”

  “Well, it’s good to see you with a sparkle in your eye.”

  “Sparkle? I’ll give you a sparkle. Lie to me again, and I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “So an attorney, huh? I don’t know if I like that. Not one of those wrinkled suits who hangs around emergency rooms handing out business cards, I hope.”

  “No, Ma, he works in the district attorney’s office. He’s one of the good guys. He was the lead attorney on a case of mine that turned to shit. We were consoling one another.”

  “Consoling one another,” she said with a smirk. “Does that involve the removal of clothing?”

  I filled her wine glass. “You’re a little feisty.”

  She raised her glass, and we toasted. “You think I’m feisty now? Just wait until I finish this wine.” She took a hearty swallow. “Delicious. Now tell me about this case.”

  I don’t normally discuss my cases with her, but this one was over and done with, a matter of public record. “I was watching it on the news just before we left your apartment. A young woman was murdered. Her name was Emma Sands … used to raise money for children’s charities. I arrested this guy, Sean Quinlan, fresh off the boat from Ireland—has an accent as thick as Aunt Connie’s midsection.” Ma grinned. “Numerous interviews confirmed that he had been dating the victim and was seen with her on the night she was murdered. My partner and I paid him a visit, and he permitted a search of his apartment. I found a knife, which I believed to be the murder weapon. I read him his rights and arrested him.”

  “But the case fell apart?”

  “Yeah.” I filled my mouth with wine and let it wash over my tongue before swallowing. “I’ll tell you what happened, but you won’t believe it.”

  “Try me. You think I didn’t hear stories exactly like this from your father? Believe me, it happened more than he liked, and he was one of the top detectives in the department.”

  Ma dipped a chunk of bread into olive oil and chewed while I expounded—or should I say lamented—about the case. “The suspect was able to document that he had a history of multiple personality disorder. His attorney convinced a judge that I read Miranda to the wrong person. He’s out on the street.”